Vigilante
by Dinas Emrys
Summary: Yang returns home after eight years, not expecting to end up as her city's protector, or to deal with the fallout from her decision to leave Vale all those years ago. She definitely didn't plan on the sister who barely speaks to her, or Weiss being so ... Weiss. Vigilante AU, with FreezerBurn Vigilante!Yang, and some Yellow M&Ms.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: All of the characters are of the age of majority in this work, for obvious reasons.

As a reminder, uncut versions of my stories are posted on my account at AO3, where they won't violate FF's content restrictions. Also, I have a tumblr as RedSuitWriter, where I'll post updates for this story, as well as general thoughts on RWBY and other assorted stuff. If you can, please take a moment to shoot out a review - they're very helpful in letting me see what readers liked and what they didn't, and I really appreciate critiques.

Disclaimer: RWBY is the property of Roosterteeth and the creation of Monty Oum.

**Prologue**

_July 17th, 2014_

I waited until the shoddily-dressed men had passed beneath me, holding my breath until I was sure they were out of earshot. The night air was warm and thick, moist and disgustingly humid. Summer had finally hit Vale, bringing the obnoxious insects and the oppressive heat with it. Sweat clung to the back of my neck, the beads tickling my skin as they ran down my spine. The whole city was hot, humid, and – worst of all – sticky. It was my own personal hell. I cursed the guys below me, Maybe _they_ didn't care about their health – actually pretty likely if you considered their chosen profession – but at least they could have picked a more comfortable place hold a drug deal. Somewhere with air conditioning.

Maybe I can get Weiss to install a walk-in freezer. Yeah, that should work.

Confident that I wasn't about to fall from my perch, I wiped the sweat from my eyes, blowing a stray lock of hair out of my face. The mask helped keep the unruly mess back, but there was always that one strand that got loose. Still, after eight years of cutting it short, there was no way I was getting rid of any part of my mane. Plus, it looked _awesome_ when I used roundhouse kicks.

... I kick people a lot. Weiss says I have a problem.

The junkies – or were they the dealers this time? I hadn't been paying attention – came back, a duffle bag swinging heavily from the tallest one's shoulder. One of them muttered something about their payment. The brute with the bag told him to stuff his questions somewhere implausible and extremely painful.

Charming.

They waited, meaning I had to wait, everyone quickly growing impatient in the stifling warehouse. One dealer scratched at his ear. Compulsively. Every few seconds. He looked like a dog with fleas. From the way they smelled, it wasn't much of a stretch. Apparently personal hygiene was even lower on their list of priorities than their health was. His wife-beater was soaked through, deep rings of sweat dying the white cloth.

Okay, so a certain heiress would chew me out if she caught me using the term 'wife-beater.' In my defense, I was fairly confident that these guys would fall squarely into that stereotype. I could be wrong, but the stringy, flea-ridden man currently scratching at what looked like a growing sore behind his ear didn't seem like he'd make for the most caring husband. Occupational hazard, I guess. I doubt most people would click on anyone with 'Drug Mule' listed on their dating profile.

The big guy lit a cigarette, the puffs of smoke wafting up towards me. Jerk. My patience was quickly running out, my knee bouncing as I fought the urge to drop this scum like a bag of bricks. I'd been tracking these guys for days, trying to figure out when their next buy was going down. Finally, I'd managed to beat it out of one of their mules, requiring only the suggestion that a crowbar wanted to spend some alone time with his knees. I'd been camped out here for hours, stretching, and waiting, and oh-dear-lord was I bored.

Finally, tires pulled to a stop outside the warehouse. An SUV, by the sound of it. Panel van, maybe. Something big and bulky and just a little creepy. Big Guy stopped smoking, grinding his cigarette into the concrete. Moron. The cops could totally get something from that. DNA probably, maybe even fingerprints. Boots clunked on the concrete outside before one of the side doors swung open.

About time. Maybe, just maybe, this would be worth the time I had wasted, waiting for everyone to show up. Hours of sweating and quiet muscle flexing, trying to not cut off circulation so nothing fell asleep on me. I hate waiting.

Reaching into my jacket, I grabbed one of the little recorders stuffed in the inside pocket. Technically, what I was about to do was illegal; Vale had very specific two-party recording consent laws. Technically, you're supposed to tell someone if you were going to record a conversation, and they're supposed to agree. That's why those little voices on customer service lines say that your call may be recorded for quality assurance. The only time you're allowed to record someone secretly is if you have a warrant, all official and proper with some judge's signature. Well, as official as it gets with the judges in this town.

Not like the legality had ever stopped me. The good part was that since I didn't work for the cops, my recordings could still be used as evidence without some lawyer complaining about the dirtbag's civil rights. I might be breaking the law, but since the cops didn't ask me to do it, it was totally okay ... kinda. I'd be in trouble if I ever got caught, but I'd have far more serious problems if it came to that.

Part of me just wanted to drop down, smack some heads together, and get home in time for a nice long soak. The other part of me knew I'd never hear the end of it. Technically, I needed them to say _something_ incriminating, or Weiss would give me an earful when I got back. She was touchy about those things. The small stuff, like corroborating evidence, and 'proof.' I pressed the button with my gloved thumb, seeing the little red light blink once as the recording started.

The buyers stopped a good ten feet from their suppliers, the hands of both sides resting conspicuously near the backs of pants or under their jackets. One guys jammed his hand directly down the front of his pants, grabbing the handle of a 9mm. Moron. Seriously, who would _ever_ think that was a good idea. One misfire, or one intentional-fire by a particularly gorgeous blonde and he'd be a eunuch. Maybe he didn't care. I mean, it would hurt, but if he wasn't using it ... Well, I shouldn't judge.

"You have the shipment?"

"Let's see the money."

There we go. Good enough for me.

I dropped, letting gravity put power behind my kick, and drove the heel of my boot directly down into the closest seller. The drop kick landed squarely against his skull, bouncing him into the concrete. He stayed down. My kicks had a tendency to do that.

I rose to my full height, looking positively awesome in the black-and-gold leather. I cocked my gauntlets, the loud click echoing in the now-silent warehouse.

"On the ground, boys. It's too hot for a workout."

There's usually a moment after a grand entrance when everyone tries to figure out what just happened, glancing around to figure out if anyone else knew what was coming. During those few seconds, there's always the hope that the bad guys will actually take the deal and lie down on the ground to accept what's coming to them. It'd save them a lot of pain, and you a lot of time and effort. Everyone wins.

Spoilers. They never take the deal.

The flea-ridden drug mule charged at me, receiving a gauntleted fist in his stomach for the trouble. Grabbing him by the shirt, I threw him into the group of buyers, knocking a few over before they could draw their guns. He was a bit of a lightweight, but even a hundred and twenty pounds of stringy junkie hurts when hurled at you like a bowling ball.

The big one stepped forward, cracking his knuckles as menacingly as he could. If he'd tried it on anyone else, he probably could have called it intimidating. Me? I just got excited. He flipped his hand over, offering me the first swing. So stupid. Never give the girl the opening punch.

I didn't bother fighting him. Granted, it would be fun – taking apart someone who thought they could handle some girl always was – but I had stuff to do. Firing my gauntlet, I shot a shockwave right to his stomach, sending him flying backwards into a stack of pallets. It had already been six-on-one – well, three-on-one now – and I didn't feel like playing fair. The buyers had gotten up, tossing the unconscious seller to the side. Two of them whipped out handguns as the third grabbed both bags, trying to make it out of there with the product and the cash.

Now, I may not be the fastest woman in the world – hell, Ruby can outrun me most days – but a shockwave-boosted bull rush tends to make shooting at me fairly difficult.

I aimed my fists backwards and fired, the gunfire passing harmlessly behind me as the force threw me forward. Whipping one arm around, my gauntlet fired at the fleeing buyer, the blast ripping one of the duffle bags to shreds. Small, clear bags of colored pills scattered everywhere, the force of the blast sending them across the room. The shot knocked the runner off his feet, leaving him to slide face-first along the rough, concrete floor. Ouch. That was going to leave some serious road-burn.

The drugs were taken care of, I kept moving, switching my attention back to the last two buyers.

A gun came up, the moron holding it out at arm's length, the barrel turned over onto its side. Apparently, that was supposed to be impressive. All it really meant is that he'd seen too many gangster movies. Holding a gun on its side absolutely ruined your aim, although I'd bet these guys weren't exactly crack shots to begin with.

Grinning, I moved my body out of line, making sure any shots would pass harmlessly to the side. Firing one of my gauntlets, I caught him on the side of his arm, sending his unsteadied hand flicking back to smack into his mouth.

Heh. Stop hitting yourself.

The last one was running out the door, panic making his last shot swing wide before he vanished. I let him go. If he was dumb enough to head back to his boss, he'd probably end up far worse that if he'd stayed here with me. Plus, it was too hot for a chase.

I pulled my zipties from another pocket, making sure everyone was bound good and tight. After that one time with the Nords, I was a lot more careful. Who knew you could actually pop these things? The big guy was just starting to come around when I fished out one of the buyers' phones, my gloved fingers already dialing 911. A few heavily-distorted words and a very irritated emergency responder later, and I knew the cops would be picking up my friends in no time. Don't know why, but something about telling the cops that you did their job for them tended to annoy them a bit.

The biggun' spat obscenities at me as I walked away, my boots padding softly on the ground. I detoured over to the buyer who'd tried to escape, grabbing the case of cash before moving to the door. If I left it there, it would just end up in the evidence lockup, eventually to be claimed by the department or stolen by some crooked cop. I knew someone who could do a lot more good with it. Making sure to give Big Guy the old one-finger salute, I slipped out the door, the heavy metal clanging shut behind me.

Once I was clear of the building, I ran for second alley to the left, ripping the stained and dirty tarp off the lumpy shape beside the dumpster. My babystood there, strong and reliable, her black-and-gold paintjob still gleaming. Moving quickly, I emptied the suitcase into a canvas bag I kept just for this purpose, checking the stacks of bills for tracers before shoving the case into the bottom of a nearby dumpster. The bills were all random numbers, thankfully nothing consecutive. It meant I could actually make a few donations with the cash. Consecutively numbered bills were too easy to track, and my friend wouldn't appreciate me bringing the law down on the people we were trying to help.

Slipping the matte black helmet down over my head, I let Bumblebee kick before we tore off into the dimly-lit streets, clearing the area before the fuzz could arrive. She roared as we tore down the streets, humming beneath me. I loved my bike, especially during the summer. The wind felt _awesome_.

Once I was clear, I pulled into a shielded alley. Hopping of my baby, I double-checked everything, making sure I hadn't forgotten equipment, hadn't made any mistakes. Weiss would kill me if I accidentally left something behind that could be traced back to me. Or her. Hell, I'd kill me. The _last_ thing I wanted was to put Weiss or Ruby in any danger.

Nope. No missing equipment, no damaged gear, no torn fragments of leather or kevlar that could be used to try and figure out the identity of the blonde in the mask.

Good. That was one more group of dealers down, and at least part of a local gang. No serious injuries, no fatalities, as promised. The police would find them all trussed up, with a nice confession all ready for them and a warehouse scattered with little pills. I even had some cash to 'donate.'

I'd call that a pretty good night.


	2. Homecoming, Part I

**Homecoming, Part I**

_March 23, 2014_

I guess I should start from the beginning. This all began about two months ago, right as I stepped into the Vale Municipal Airport.

Now, to anyone who hasn't been unlucky enough to step on a plane, there's an odd feeling that comes whenever you get off. Granted, airports are airports, each with their little counters, the rope lines, the staff that randomly exist somewhere between surprisingly helpful and infuriatingly incompetent. But the signs are always different. Different companies, local vendors you've never seen, languages you haven't read. The feeling gets old fast, but there's still the sensation of being somewhere different, of knowing you walked into an aluminum can in one place and walked out of it in another.

Then there's the feeling when you come home. It's still the same place it was when you left, the same airport they haven't bothered rebuilding in eight years. The stores have changed though; overpriced women's clothing sits where that place with the decent burgers used to be, the bookstore replaced by a bespectacled man hawking the newest gadget. You know it's the same place, but it always feels different, like someone tried to remake it from your memories, only they missed the few details that would have made it work.

Then there's the people. You see yourself every day in the mirror for almost a decade, you might not notice how much you've changed. There's the old photo here or there, a reminder of when you didn't have that scar, or when you grew your hair long or short. But for you, the changes are gradual, and you can chart the march of time. You don't always get that luxury for someone else.

That all sunk home the minute I saw the girl waiting for me in the airport lobby, her foot tapping impatiently. Everything was different. Gone were the faded jeans and the rebellious side-tail. A tidy bun held her long hair at the back of her neck, her makeup was elegant, professional, and even the quietly imposing clothes managed to look like they'd been tailor-made for her. Well ... they might have actually been made for her. After eight years, she was almost a completely different person, someone with just a passing resemblance to the teenager I'd known. For a split second, I wondered how I was supposed greet the best friend I hadn't seen in years.

Ah, to hell with it.

Letting my bags drop to the ground – I didn't care about the airport regulations, no one was going to mess with the green duffels – I pushed my way through the crowd, charging up to Weiss and lifting her in the biggest, most embarrassing bear hug I could muster. She stiffened, struggling for a moment before surrendering with that sigh I'd heard every time I managed to call. Slowly, reluctantly, she hugged me back.

Good. At least_ she_ was the same, even under the professional clothes and the expensive perfume. She was still tiny – sorry, 'petite' – and I lifted her off the floor with ease. Not that it was anything new, but it was nice to see that some things didn't change. A man in a dark gray suit stood nearby, eyeballing me briefly before moving to lift my bags from the floor, his eyes slipping back to scan the crowd. Apparently Weiss had warned them to expect a hug from an Amazonian blonde. Smart girl.

"If you're quite done," a voice mumbled into my chest, "You're wrinkling my shirt."

Grinning, I put Weiss back on her feet, keeping my hands on her shoulders as I beamed down at the petite woman. "I missed you too, Princess."

She scowled, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fought to hide a smile. "No one calls me that anymore, Yang."

"Someone should. Can't have you getting to full of yourself."

I clocked her playfully in the shoulder, getting a death glare from the attending bodyguard. Weiss rolled her eyes, waited a moment, and then punched me back, her mouth losing the battle to keep from smiling.

It was really good to be home.

A limo was waiting for us at the curb, the driver hiding from the spring rain beneath an oversized umbrella. He moved as soon as we came out onto the sidewalk, sacrificing his cover to protect 'Miss Schnee' from the deadly drizzle. As smoothly as if she'd done it a hundred times, Weiss slid into the limo, legs folding as she moved aside to let me in. I climbed into the black leather interior, the bodyguard taking the shotgun seat with the driver. It always annoyed me how the seat never came with an actual shotgun. Then again, knowing Weiss' security, it might actually have one.

Still, I wasn't going to complain about the dour-faced men raised the privacy glass, giving the two of us some space. Weiss was one of the few people I'd kept in touch with, and one of my few sources of mail for the past few years. We'd talked a lot, or as much as we could, with email chains and skype calls doing their best. Still, with both of us in the same room for the first time in years, I was having trouble coming up with something. We were both quiet for a while, searching for something to say that wasn't a repeat of a conversation we'd already had.

Finally, Weiss opened her mouth. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"I was kinda hoping to stay with you."

Weiss twitched. Crap. Clearly she hadn't wanted me to say that. Time to backpedal.

"You know what, I'll just stay at a hotel."

"No, you will not," Weiss scowled. "If I don't take you home, you'll end up at the first run-down motel you find, just because you're too lazy to find a decent one. Then you'll come crawling to me with a bedbug infestation"

"Fine, fine." I threw up my hands in surrender. I had kinda been hoping to bunk at her place for a little while. It had been a long time since we really spent time together – I was looking forward to just hanging out with her, but if it was a hassle ... "Is it "

"It's just ... complicated."

"New girlfriend?"

"No." she snapped, annoyed that I'd mention her apparently non-existent sex life. "My roommate will be less than thrilled."

My stomach sank. Weiss was hardly what you would call 'sociable.' I could count on one hand the number of people she would willingly live with.

"Is it-"

"Yeah."

"How is she?"

"Technically, she's working."

"Technically?"

"I made sure she could take the day off ..."

"If she wanted to." I finished, my stomach sinking. Not that I was surprised. We had barely spoken in years beyond the obligatory birthday card or holiday call. After the funeral, she shut me out completely.

"Yang, I'm not sure she ever really forgave you for leaving. When you missed the service ..." Weiss sighed, staring across the back seat of the limo, "I could have gotten you leave. You just had to tell me."

"My unit was kinda busy," I squirmed against the leather seats, trying to find a position where the seatbelt didn't threaten to strangle me, "Don't think I didn't notice how eager my CO was to get rid of me when my contract was up."

Weiss smirked, pulling a water bottle from the holder nearby and snapping the plastic top. "A few people owed me some favors. You'd be surprised how easy it can be to make sure someone isn't in a 'shortage' position."

"Easy for you, maybe."

She shrugged, taking a long sip from the little plastic tube. "We have a number of military contracts."

I snorted. It was a bit of an understatement. The Schnee Corporation was one of the largest economic behemoths in the world, controlling a massive number of subsidiaries, its tendrils reaching into just about any business you could think off. The company's Applied Sciences division was renowned (even to someone as disinterested as me) for a long series of military innovations. They made superior body armor, vehicles, generators, high-powered weaponry, you name it. The rumor was, if it had a Schnee logo on it, you could trust it with your life.

I was a little more familiar with it than most. About two years in, I got caught in an explosion, the bomb detonating beneath our jeep on some nondescript Vacuan road. I'd been lucky – all minor injuries apart from a slightly perforated lung. That last one was came from my vest not catching a piece of the shrapnel, breaking through the ceramic plating. Definitely not the worst that could have happened, but it still hurt like a mother. No equipment lasts forever, and sometimes a vest slipped through that was a month or two past its expiration date.

Which was how I ended up in a hospital bed when my replacement equipment arrived. Equipment that had to cost more than I made in a year, all of it with a very discreet Schnee logo printed on the inside. Apparently, I had been 'volunteered' to test their latest prototypes. My CO had only known the orders came from higher up the chain. The only answer I ever got was a surprisingly terse 'Get Well' card from Weiss. She wanted to know how I was doing, if I was getting better, and made it very clear that if I got myself blown up again, she'd see to it I was transferred somewhere _safe_. Judging by the tone of her letter, somewhere very, very cold.

"You know I hated getting special favors from you."

"Who said it was for you?" Weiss snapped, one eyebrow raised in utter skepticism. The feigned arrogance melted for a minute, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smile. "It's been eight years. I missed you, dolt."

Before she could argue, I jumped across the car, flopping onto the leather seats and wrapping my arms around her. Weiss struggled, pushing against my head in a vain attempt to escape. I let her go after a few minutes, watching as she jerked her clothes back into place, one hand checking her bun.

"I missed you both. More than I can say."

Weiss stopped fussing with her hair to look at me, one hand patting me uneasily on the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

She wasn't a very good liar. It was one of the things I liked about her.

* * *

I asked Weiss to swing by the Fifth Precinct on our way back to her place. She nodded slowly before telling her driver, rapping her knuckles on the privacy glass. The driver nodded, hit the turn signal and raised the glass back up, leaving just the two of us in our little bubble. Weiss fiddled with her water bottle, eyes glazed over as she stared through the floor. She knew why I needed to go, why I needed to hear it in person. Not that she'd admit it, but I could tell she was worried. At least, I think she was worried. She was doing that little furrow thing with her brow. So, either worried or angry.

Honestly, I was just glad she cared.

The driver pulled up alongside the curb, giving the two of us a chance to slide out of the town car before he drove off to find a parking space. A few words to the weedy-looking desk clerk, and he ushered us into a nearby lounge with paint peeling off the walls. Weiss tried to say something, probably about to insist that the detective in charge of my father's case be brought to us immediately. I cut her off, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. I wasn't about to drop the full might of Schnee down upon them, at least not yet. Not while they still seemed inclined to actually help. Bringing in a name like hers might help in the short run, but forcing a bunch of annoyed cops to play politics wasn't the way to get a successful investigation. She looked back at me and sighed, swallowing her words as we sank into the threadbare couch.

She quieted, but it was good to know Weiss wanted to help, even if all she could do was make the system run a little faster. Thankfully, we weren't kept waiting long; for someone who prizes patience as much as Weiss, she's really bad about waiting. Course, with the Schnee name, she normally didn't have to.

After a few minutes, a woman with long red hair walked into the room, the unbuttoned blazer just showing the badge clipped to her belt and the Sig holstered at her hip. The detective was tall, almost my height, with the tight, coiled build of a lifelong runner. I'd put my money on a past as a college athlete, someone with a compulsive drive to stay in the same shape she was years ago. The cop was a looker too – Ireland might lie in her eyes and hair, but the olive skin spoke of Mediterranean ancestors, sunny countries far from rolling pastures and peat bogs.

I caught a flash of green when she turned, her eyes going wide, resting squarely on the girl at my side. It was there for barely a second, and then she was back in control, moving across the room with the confidence of a complete professional and sparing the suddenly silent Weiss no more attention than necessary. I had to admit, she was good. If I hadn't been paying attention, I would have missed it.

They knew each other.

"Miss Xiao Long, Detective Pyrrha Nikos, Major Crimes."

Not bothering to correct the title, I nodded and took the offered hand. She pumped it once before letting go, hesitating half a second before doing the same to Weiss. The heiress stared blankly at the hand before she caught herself, extending her own out of courtesy. Introductions out of the way, she perched on the armchair across from us, scooting forward to keep from falling back into the sagging cushions.

"I was told you're the one investigating my father's murder." Might as well get to the point. I'm sure the clerk had told her why I was here.

"It was recently re-assigned to my desk. I'm so sorry for your loss."

I shrugged off the scripted phrase, although I had to admit, she almost sounded like she meant it. This had to be the worst part of her job: dealing with the grieving, angry, or guilty members of the victims' families. I'd been lucky – I'd only written a few of those letters, but it still tore at your soul, having to tell someone their loved one was dead.

"Re-assigned?"

"The detective handling your case took an early retirement."

Weiss snorted at that, derision clear in her voice. "I didn't know 'retirement' included being indicted on corruption charges." She finally looked up from her hands, pale blue eyes shooting her challenge at the redhead. Nikos twitched, her focus finally switching from me to the woman at my side. Weiss met her eyes, and I resisted the urge to slink away as they stared each other down. They didn't look angry, or if they were, it was the kind of anger that had grown cold over time. Just awkwardness, maybe? Whatever they wanted to say, neither was willing or able to say it. I cleared my throat, and they blinked. Apparently they had forgotten I was here.

Nikos cleared her throat, taking the time to get herself together. "As a result, I caught some of his old cases." A thin manila folder materialized on the coffee table between us, resting between someone's half-finished cup of coffee and the unused coaster on the other end. I flicked it open, finding a collection of crime scene photos and evidence reports, listing the forensic evidence discovered at the scene, the caliber of the bullets. It was far thinner than I would have liked. "Your father's body was found floating in the bay with two gunshot wounds to the chest. The medical examiner put the time of death at around twelve hours beforehand."

"I got this much in the report you people sent me. After you were convinced I hadn't snuck back into the country and murdered him myself, of course." It was hard to not be bitter, but I was trying to be the bigger person. Not like it was her fault, either; she hadn't been the one hiding behind 'procedure' while accusing me of patricide. That badge definitely didn't do her any favors though.

"It's been two months. I'm asking if there's anything new, or if the VCPD is incapable of finishing the investigation."

Her jaw twitched a bit, but she didn't rise to the bait, simply continuing in that low, calm voice. "I understand your frustration. Unfortunately, the seawater in the bay removed much of the physical evidence, if there was anything useful to begin with. The only real lead was ballistics, and those apparently led to a member of one of the local gangs."

I noticed she didn't mention which gang. She might be going out of her way to tell me how the case had progressed, but apparently there was a line she wouldn't cross. "And he isn't arrested ... why?"

"Completely solid alibi. He also claims the gun was stolen from him a week before the murder."

"So Vale's boys in blue aren't competent enough to catch a couple gang-bangers playing hot potato with a murder weapon?"

"Competence isn't the problem." Weiss chose that moment to speak up, her hand pulling at my shoulder, tugging me back into the couch. I hadn't realized I'd moved. "The city's gotten nastier since you left. It's one thing to risk your life for someone else's safety. It's another to make an arrest knowing your family is on the line if someone wants to make reprisals."

"My predecessor _might_ have been of that mindset, Weiss. I'm not. If we get any leads, I _will_ look into them." There was a bit of an edge to her voice, the sound of an old argument I wasn't a part of. "Without the gun or any idea where the bod ... where your father died or was put in the water, there's very little to go on."

I stood to leave. There wasn't anything else to say, apart from venting my anger at the department. While it might make me feel better in the short run, I had a better target in mind. I thanked her, the words probably sounded more lackluster than I meant them to. Detective Nikos took it in stride, offering us both another handshake before gently guiding us back to the entrance.

Now I just had to decide whether or not I believed her. Given what I'd read of the current VCPD, and Weiss' rather caustic color commentary, it was looking like half the force was bought, lazy, or incompetent. Granted, Nikos seemed nice enough, if a little dull. The jury was still out on whether that bland niceness was an act or just her personality. What's the line ... 'one can smile and smile and be a villain?' (See Weiss, I _was _paying attention to that play you dragged me to.)

Weiss texted her driver as soon as we stepped outside the prescient, hiding from the spring drizzle in the arched entryway. Soon we were well into an unhappy silence of our own, both waiting for the other to say something, both knowing and avoiding what the other wanted to ask.

I broke first.

"So ... you two know each other." Deadpan. No reason not to be, especially after all that. Weiss knew me well enough to see that I knew. At this point it was just a waiting game to see when she'd crack.

"We were in the same year at university. We ran into each other." Wow. That had to be a strong contender for understatement of the year. Someone you 'ran into' at school got a polite nod or an insincere question about their quality of life. Not an awkward silence you could cut with a broadsword.

"If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. I won't push." Weiss had never been a good liar. There was clearly more between the two of them, but unless she felt like sharing ...

"Sorry." Apparently, she didn't. Not that it was surprising.

Might as well cut to the chase – I was really starting to get tired of the whole silence thing. "Do you believe her? About my dad."

Weiss took a second to answer, her teeth biting down into her lip as she mulled it over. "Pyrrha was always driven. She's not the type to let things go, least of all a case. If she says the case is cold and not going anywhere, then someone probably made her move on. I would take her word about new evidence – if they find anything, she'll pounce on it." "Especially after we implied that the police are incapable of doing their job.

I nodded absently, noting the switch between _was_ and _is_. Still, if Weiss didn't want to talk, I wasn't going to push it. We all had our secrets, the odd skeleton cluttering our closet.

Weiss looked over at me, her brow furrowing as she opened her mouth. I guess that meant it was my turn. Crap. I hate it when it's my turn.

"Are you okay?" she asked, silently offering to listen if I needed to vent. It was a nice gesture, but that wasn't what I needed right now.

"I will be." It wasn't a complete lie. I might not be in mourning, but these weren't exactly happy memories we were shifting through. "Thanks, Weiss. I ... I needed that."

She just nodded, and we both lapsed back into that stupid silence until the car pulled up. It wasn't until we were both inside the warm and dry interior that Weiss spoke again, her hand waiting to knock on the privacy glass.

"Home, then? Or do you ..." she trailed off, waiting to know where I wanted to go.

She called it home. Not 'my place,' not 'the apartment.' Home. I appreciated the implication: that I'd always have a home here to come back to, at least with her.

"Home sounds good."

It was late by the time we got to her apartment, and Weiss sent her attendants away for the night, saying something about the driver getting home to his wife. I smirked. I knew Weiss would make a good boss.

Once inside the building, we found ourselves waiting for the elevator in a marble-floored entryway. Trust Weiss to have a penthouse in a building with twenty flights of stairs, which meant we had to listen to god-awful Muzak until the car finally dinged at her floor. We finally stepped out, Weiss keying the door open while I stumbled in with the bags.

Somebody scrambled to their feet in the next room, sofa springs complaining as a body bounced off their support, darting for the hallway.

"Weiss, you won't believe what happened when we ran the Crescent through her paces today. Okay, we might have underestimated the force on impact, but it can't be _that_ expensive to repair the range, and ..." She turned the corner and stopped, stock-still, just staring at me.

"Hi, Ruby." I waved, freeing up my hands as I dumped the bags to the side.

My sister had grown up. I'd gotten a couple pictures (from Weiss, of course) but it wasn't the same as seeing her in person. Her hair had changed – it wa the first thing I noticed. For years Ruby insisted that Mom cut it one particular way, and she'd been happy to oblige. It had been their little ritual, Ruby running up every time her hair grew too long, bouncing until Mom sat her down, washed her hair, and clipped it back into line. After her death, I'd tried once. I got close, but it just wasn't the same. Now, Ruby let it grow long, a ponytail draped over her shoulder. She still kept that one lock in front, but the bangs that always fell into her eyes were gone, pinned up and out of the way.

It hit me. She'd grown up, and I hadn't gotten to see it.

She didn't say anything, just walked past me, shoving her stockinged feet into the pair of boots that sat by the door. "Have to get back to work. I still owe you that project update you wanted."

"It can wait a day, Ruby."

She flashed a small smile that even I could tell was forced. "I catch enough flak for being the boss' roommate. Can't really have you giving me special treatment too."

Weiss nodded slowly, looking back and forth between the two of us. "I'll come in to work early tomorrow. It'll give us a chance to talk."

"Yeah. Sure," the sister I hadn't seen in years brushed her off, slipping out the door without another word.

Happy to see me, my ass.

Abandoning my bags, I sank into the couch Ruby had just vacated, letting the soft cushions comfort me in my depression. I wasn't expecting a hug, but acknowledging my existence would have been nice. Weiss took one look at me before kicking off her heels and vanishing into the kitchen, returning with a takeout menu and silverware one hand, a quart of ice cream tucked under her arm.

"I thought you hated strawberry."

"Which is why it's for you," she smirked, flashing the container of blueberry fro-yo under the other arm. "And if you make that joke, I'm throwing it out." Meticulous as always, Weiss arranged the bowls and spoons on the coffee table, scowling when she turned back to find me scooping strawberry chunks right out of the tub.

"What? You're not gonna eat it," I mumbled, grinning once I speak around the frozen chunks of fruit. Shaking her head, she scooped out her own frozen emotional therapy. I waited until she was done ordering takeout before setting down my slowly melting treat.

"Is she doing okay, with the job and everything?"

"Her team adores her. There might have been some grumbling at first, mostly from the rumors that I added an eighteen year old kid to my research staff." Weiss spooned another mouthful of blue-tinted yogurt into her mouth, swallowing properly before she continued. "It took _maybe_ a day for everyone to warm up to her. She's doing well, Yang."

"I'm glad."

"Really? Because I know you, and that's not your happy face."

I groaned, rubbing the traitorous muscles while I figured how much I could tell her. I settled on the truth, or a part of it. It always made for the best lies. "I'm wondering what would have been different if I hadn't left."

"You know, when you told me you wanted to enlist, I thought about asking you to stay."

"Why didn't you?"

"The same reasons Ruby will eventually forgive you. You would have been supremely unhappy, and I'd have suffered from crippling guilt." "She just didn't see it coming. You should have told her before you signed up, but she'll get over it, Yang. Just give it some time."

I nodded, looking down into my desert. "Hey Weiss?"

"Yeah, Yan – what the hell?" she shrieked as I smeared ice cream all over the tip of her nose.

"What was that for?"

"Weiss á la mode." I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of Weiss scowling at me over her now-pink nose. "What? You said I couldn't make the Weiss Cream pun."

Granted, she tried to brain me with the ice cream scoop, but she was scowling happily while she did it. We started the night eating Chinese food out of paper boxes, piling them in the empty quarts before abandoning them to the recycle. It was like old times, the two of us acting like teenagers at a sleepover. She even convinced me to let her braid my hair. Hell, Weiss genuinely_ smiled_ when she said goodnight, leaving me to spread the borrowed blankets over her sofa.

She was never going to forgive me for what I was about to do.


	3. Homecoming, Part II

As a reminder, uncut versions of my stories are posted on my account at AO3, where they won't violate FF's content restrictions. Also, I have a tumblr as RedSuitWriter, where I'll post updates for this story, as well as general thoughts on RWBY and other assorted stuff. If you can, please take a moment to shoot out a review - they're very helpful in letting me see what readers liked and what they didn't, and I really appreciate critiques.

**Homecoming, Part II**

_March 24, 2014_

I waited until the light clicked off in Weiss' room, the bed creaking as she finally went to sleep. I levered myself slowly off the couch, listening for the telltale complaints of sofa springs. After letting me crash here, it'd be kinda rude to wake her up. Plus, I didn't really want her knowing what I was doing. No offense to Weiss, but this was something I had to do myself, especially since she'd spend the time trying to convince me to just let this go.

That wasn't gonna happen.

I opened the smaller of my two duffels as quietly as I could, pulling out the scarred, dented laptop wrapped in a pair of my old jeans. Plugging it in, I went to work, finding the password for her wi-fi on a post-it note under the modem in her den. The visit to the precinct might not have been as fruitful as I'd hoped, but at least I had a place to start. The gang member whose gun was used in the murder. Even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself, I found it hard to believe that he had nothing to do with it. Okay, maybe it was just because it was the only real lead I had, but at least I'd be doing something.

Detective Nikos hadn't given me his name. I could understand why. More than a few grieving family members would go after a suspect if given half a chance.

Not that her reluctance would stop me. The police might not be able to force him to talk, but I could. If he'd been arrested, there would be a record, so if the cops wouldn't tell me, I'd just have to go to a different bastion of public disservice: the press.

I spent most of the night plugging away on the computer, trolling through newspaper archives from a year and a half ago, searching for any mention of my father's murder. I found more than a few – he hadn't been famous, but apparently the shooting of a respected engineer warranted some coverage. Most of it was what you'd expect: the usual drivel about him being a titan of the industry, a list of the more successful projects he'd helmed, a few quotes from co-workers and friends. The almighty Rolf Schnee had even bothered to write something: a 'heartfelt' piece calling him 'an example for all young innovators to aspire to.' Least he could do for one of the men who helped him make his company what it was today.

There was nothing useful in the national papers, so I went local, shifting through Vale politics and social justice articles to find the crime reports. I'd worked my way down into the third-tier news rags before I found it, buried between an editorial about the increasing crime rate and an advertisement for dog food.

Russell Thrush, arrested 'in connection with the Rose murder.' Member of the Cardinals street gang. That was more than enough to go on.

Conveniently for me, state law requires arrest records be accessible to the public. Granted, 'suspicion of murdering my dad' probably wasn't a functioning search term on their website, but the name definitely was. Once I'd made sure the proxy wouldn't lead them straight back to Weiss' flat, I started looking. There was the chance someone might notice the recent search if something ... _happened_ to Mister Thrush, and I didn't want any of this falling back on my host. I found him within minutes, blonde mohawk sagging against the shaved side of his head as he stared into the mugshot camera. I scrolled through the page, jotting down the listed aliases, smiling when it mentioned resisting arrest. I hoped they'd been rough with him, although apparently not enough to get the scumbag to talk. If only they'd been a little harder for the gang to intimidate, a little better at their jobs, all this might not have been necessary. I wouldn't have gotten involved. I had to hand it to them though, the system worked, at least as far as their web designer was concerned.

The record even listed his last known address.

I made sure to enjoy the city after I slipped out of Weiss' flat, the doorman looking at me like some sort of vagrant. To be fair, I did kinda look the part. Stepping out onto the street, I stopped to marvel at the city I still called my home. I'd forgotten how it _really _looked after years in a desert. Everything was orange, and blue, and red. The city was covered in fluorescent lights, neon signs, and flashing LEDs, currents blasted through any filament or gas someone could manage to bottle. My city glows, shadows broken by lit windows and business signs, infinitely more vivid than it could ever be during the day. Sunlight washes out the color, turning the skyscrapers into calm, bland towers, looming over dull red brick and bland concrete. The night is when it comes alive, when it burns, desperate to keep back the darkness.

The people aren't any different. Walk down any street at night and you can find someone fresh out of a club, somewhere between delightfully tipsy and drunk off his ass, fighting sleep and exhaustion to keep the party going. If not him, the changing shifts, either just getting off or about to head in, grabbing a bite to eat at all-night diners and the odd food stand that caters to the late-night clientele. It's a good fight, the battle to keep the night alive, to keep the world from sleeping.

I'd missed the lights.

The taxi driver had to snap his fingers to tear me away from the window, my eyes glazed over as neon lines blurred past. Shaking myself out of the daydream, I paid the man, asked him to wait and leave the meter running, then stepped out onto the curb.

The crumpled post-it in my pocket listed a third floor address in a tenement building on the outskirts of the University District, filled with half-broke students working their way through school, rubbing shoulders with trust-fund brats and frat boys. I didn't look too out of place, black beanie and an oversized hoodie hiding most of my blond hair, the jeans just loose enough to move comfortably in. Hell, I could probably still pass for a student. Post-grad at least. I remembered the area from my brief stint at college, and I'd bet the bars were just as easy to sneak into now as they had been back then.

I walked in the opposite direction from the school, the rowdy crowds and vomiting frat boys far behind me. The further you got from Beacon, the lower the property values sank, until you hit the edge. The part of the area no one admitted to, conveniently forgetting it was even there. It was as far from the neat houses, Greek dens, and polished apartment towers as you could get, well past the bars, the coffee shops, the karaoke places, and the Mormon church that had always seemed to have one missionary up on the campus to proselytize. The building at the address was so old that I half-expected to see even the brick starting to rot. At least it was the kind of building I could see Thrush living in, run-down and decrepit.

Reminding myself that it could have always been the sixth floor, I took the stairs at a run, using the exercise as a warm-up in case Thrush decided he wanted to do this the fun way. If he gave me what I needed to know, I'd let him walk out of here mostly intact, but somehow, I suspected he was gonna make me work for it.

Apartment 315 was at the other end of the hall. Ignoring the tarnished metal handle, I rapped my knuckles on the door, ducking my head just enough that anyone inside could still see I was female, but still hid the top of my face from view. In case this went south, I'd rather he not have a great idea what I looked like. Plus, people are always more likely to open the door to a woman than they are to a man. Definitely a mistake, but not one I'd complain about.

A woman well into middle age opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow, blinking sleep from her eyes. Crap. Trust a guy like this to give his mother's house as his address. At least, I hoped it was his mother. Otherwise he had a real big cougar fixation.

I fought the urge to unleash a few choice expletives, knowing they wouldn't make this problem any easier. Ideally, Thrush would have opened the door, I could have kicked it in, gotten some of the anger out of my system, and we could have had a nice long chat. If it had just been some random guy, I probably could have still strong-armed him into telling me where Thrush was, if he'd even known. Hell, no answer at all would have been better. I could have just broken in, gone looking for anything to lead me to this guy. But I wasn't about to strong-arm a woman with worry lines wrinkling her brow, much less beat answers out of her.

"Who are you?" She sounded suspicious. I couldn't blame her. I mean, I had shown up on her doorstep at midnight.

"I'm ... Carol. Is Russ here?" I took a shot in the dark at a nickname. Last thing I needed was for her to think I was here for ... well, exactly what I was really here for, actually. Oddly enough, most people don't think too highly of strangers coming 'round to interrogate their relatives, even when those relatives are complete scumbags.

"My son doesn't live here anymore."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I just ..." Crap. Why didn't I think of a lie _before_ I came to the apartment? ... oh right, I was planning to kick the door in and use the shattered remains to beat a confession out of him. A pity. It had been a good plan, too – apart from the whole, him not-being-here thing.

Okay Yang, you've got this. Middle aged woman, delinquent son, general sense of disappointment, crushed dreams ... pretty decent cocktail of sadness. Should do just fine.

"Look, sorry to bother you, I can come back a different time – I've got like, seven months still, so ..." I turned to leave. I didn't want to just give her everything; she'd buy into the lie more if I made her work for it. _If_ she felt like working for it. Otherwise, I'd have a 'change of heart,' go back, and demand she tell me where the no-good father of my fake baby was.

I'd only made it two steps before I heard the chain lock come off the door.

"Did my son ... are you pregnant?"

Subtle, she was not. I knew I shuddered, the mere thought of ... ugh. Gag. Well, at least it worked. Take shallow breaths, get the heart beating a little faster. Best to look nervous, pitch the voice up a little bit. Make the shudder look like it was from emotion, not the effort to keep from hurling. She'd bought it this far, might as well go all the way.

I turned back, pitching my voice up as I tightened my throat. "I just need to talk to Russ and I can't find him and I thought that maybe he'd come back here ..." I full-on babbled, hoping she wouldn't notice my poor acting if I just rushed through it.

Either I was a better actor than I thought, or she was less intelligent that I'd given her credit for. Probably the latter – I'd been cast as inanimate objects for every school play I'd ever done. She squeezed my shoulder awkwardly, genuinely trying to reassure a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry, hun. I haven't seen that boy in ... a long time." Crap. I could hear the pain in her voice. "Would you like to come in? I could make us some tea."

Just great. Add guilt to the disappointment. Not only was Thrush not here, I was starting to feel like I'd kicked this poor woman's dog.

Now, I could go in there, probably make up an excuse to use her bathroom, and take the chance to check the rest of the house. Maybe Thrush really was in there, and this woman was just covering for her son. Fine, it _was_ possible, but not very likely. I hadn't heard anything that sounded like another person in the apartment, and the sadness on her face seemed real enough. Even worse was the flicker of hope, the idea that maybe, just maybe, a child in her son's life would do what all her parenting couldn't, or at least give her a new life to take care of. A second chance.

Honestly, I didn't want to get in any deeper. As long as the building didn't fall apart in the next few days, I could always come back, kick down the door and hunt for this poor woman's son then.

"Thanks, but I ... I should probably go." At least I didn't have to fake the awkwardness on that one. I slipped back down the stairwell, taking time to slump dejectedly until I was out of sight. I waited in the stairwell until I heard the door close behind me, then headed back to the ground floor.

A dead end. Great. I'd gotten my hopes up with the newspaper article. Still, it wasn't quite square one. I had the name, and now that I knew which street gang he was in, I had a place to start. Plus, it would have been way too easy just to find him chilling at his mom's.

Apparently, luck hadn't _completely_ abandoned me. The taxi was still sitting sat at the end of the curb. I gave the cabbie an address three blocks from Weiss' place (just in case) and slumped in the back.

How the hell had _that_ woman's son ended up a murdering gang member? ... I think I'm gonna blame the schools.

* * *

A blast of light woke me far earlier than I'd have liked. I looked for a second at the watch I'd left on the coffee table, moaned, and rolled to the side with my eyes clenched shut, desperate to bury my face in the pillow and return to the blissful void of sleep. For the love of god, Weiss, who gets up at five?

"Come on, Yang, wake up."

"Five more minutes, mom."

"All evidence to the contrary," my host snapped, yanking at the blanket I was hugging over my head. "I'm not your mother."

"Then let me sleep."

"If I do, you'll never get over your jet lag." Growling, I forced myself up, finding Weiss in boardroom battle gear, pencil skirt stretching just a bit while she slipped on her heels.

"What?"

"Nothing, just ... I forget you're a responsible adult sometimes."

"We've been adults for a while, Yang." She snorted and rose, brushing a spec of lint off her suit. I smiled. _That_ hadn't changed at least. It was good to see Weiss was as impeccable as ever – her clothes pressed to perfection, without a single hair out of place or a blemish on her perfect face. No, pimples had never dared the wrath of the great Weiss Schnee. A shame, really. The rage probably would have ended with her wiping out acne once and for all.

She looked at me oddly, sliding the heel of her foot into the back of the shoe. "That's what happens when you leave."

I nodded and ran a hand through my sleep-mussed hair.

"I am sorry, Yang. I only need to head into the office for a few hours, and I'll find a way to take the afternoon off." She smiled and headed off towards the front door.

"Could you tell Ruby 'hi' for me?" I called after her, almost regretting the words as I said them.

She paused, the clicking of her heels stopping halfway down the hall. "Of course, Yang." The door clicked as it opened. "I left the key on the counter, so lock up when you leave. Just don't blow up my place while I'm gone, okay?"

I listened to her leave before going back to bed. I needed more sleep after last night, although I did set an alarm to wake me up at a more decent hour. Once my head stopped complaining from sleep deprivation, I dressed and got ready to leave, grabbing a pop-tart from the solitary box in her kitchen. I smiled at presence of the frosted strawberry breakfast – I doubted even starvation would be enough to make Weiss eat one.

Munching the microwave 'pastry,' I caught a cab off the street and headed off to the one place that might help me find Mr. Thrush. Unfortunately, the punk didn't seem to be the kind of guy who tweeted his location constantly. It would have nice, really. But no, he lacked the common courtesy to make tracking him down any easier. That left me needing to find an otherwise insignificant gang member, with very few options left. Other than finding random examples of the lowlife's gang and putting the fear of god in them. Well, I could always use it as a fallback.

That just left one place, buried in the shell of an Art Deco corpse, stylized LED letters spelling out 'JUST' in red and white on the sign. It was popular enough among the weekend warrior crowd, but even during my brief attempt at college, the draw had been less about the place's music or drinks than the illicit vibe. Not drugs, although I'd bet the place had seen its fair share at one time or another. No, the Triads gave the place its forbidden draw, with rumors of a connection to one Chinese mafia or another thrilling the yuppies that came to party. I didn't bother with the clientele's fancies about romantic, chain-smoking Hong Kong gangsters or the muscled leading men of old _yanggang _flicks – the Xiong Group owned the bar, plain and simple. It was one of their 'legitimate' possessions, and while cops had dragged few members from club in the past, the place was still there, all but unassailable to Vale's faltering police force.

The guard at the door moved to stop me, then apparently thought better of it. It's not like the club was actually open; anyone coming now would be on 'business.' The automatic doors slid open, and I stalked into the building, hands clenching to shake off the nervous tension. It wasn't every day I walked into a mafia den.

The place was practically abandoned. Made sense, given that I was walking into a nightclub at ten in the morning. The floor dropped away, leaving a set of stairs that descended down into the club. I avoided the tiled dance floor, walking past decorative light fixtures as I made my way over to the bar. The manager stood behind the polished surface, wiping a clean glass with an equally clean cloth.

For an information broker, the dude was huge. It was starting to look like the Junior moniker was supposed to be ironic, one of those dumb jokes bandied about before introducing someone the name simply didn't fit. A trimmed beard sat beneath horrible red shades, his ensemble sticking to the club's newspaper color scheme. Well, I hoped the theme was newsprint. 'Axe-crazy Penguin' didn't sound like a normal set of paint swatches.

"Frozen Strawberry Sunrise. With Salt."

He cocked an eyebrow before pulling out the ingredients. I mean, what the hell, right? I had a growing feeling this wasn't gonna go well, and it had to be five o'clock somewhere. Cape Verde probably counted. Somewhere in the Pacific, at least.

The man called Junior placed the pink-red drink on a napkin, crimson liquid floating in the blended ice. I took a sip, getting as much salt off the rim as I could.

"I'm new in town, and I need to find someone." Okay, that _might_ have been a little blunt, but I didn't feel like wasting time. I was still in a bad mood after having to deal with this punk's poor old mother.

"You came in a little early for a one-night stand," Junior growled, returning to his pretense of cleaning the glassware.

"Cute." I took another sip, hoping the delay would draw him in. He had to know I was here for something more serious than a random hook-up. "Where can I find the Cardinals?"

The glass came down, gently clinking as he set it on the bar. "Tell you what, Blondie," he looked up, fingers twitching to call some of his boys over, "You get lost and I'll forget you ever came in here."

Now, I was not in what anyone would call a 'good' mood. There was two ways this could go down. Either I waited for his boys to come over, who I'd have to beat up, or I got the drop on him, and then his beat up his boys.

Might as well be proactive.

"Yeah, I really wasn't looking to deal." I grabbed him by the horrible red tie, yanking his face down to slam against the bar top. Junior bounced, blood spurting from his nose as he reeled back, swearing. Whiner. It was a broken nose at most.

That just left the squad of the tacky-suited, fedora-wearing gangsters rushing at me from behind. I could hear their footsteps as they pounded over. Sliding off the bar stool, I waited, needing them to get into my range. Too far away, and my timing would be off, leaving me open. Too close, and they'd be in a prime position to get their shots in first.

I needed everything _just right_.

Grabbing the edge of the stool, I swung, smacking the frontrunner's head like a baseball. He didn't get the distance those did, but at least he went down, falling off to the side as the rest of the gangsters got to me. They were bare-knuckled for the most part, although I noticed one of them had already pulled out a switchblade.

Tsk, tsk. Those were definitely illegal.

I blocked the first couple punches with the legs of the stool, their hands flinching back from the pain of punching the steel bars. One went for a kick to my side, probably aiming for my kidney. Jerk. I caught his calf in the stool legs, twisting to force his leg higher into the air. I aimed my foot for his remaining leg, and he went down, horribly off balance. Another quick kick, this time to his temple, and he crumpled.

The one with the knife decided to slash at me, so I threw the stool into his face, making him reel back as he reflexively tried to catch the thing. He managed ... at least under my fist sailed between the metal legs. He took the shot to his face, staggering back and giving me time to deal with the rest of the muscle.

It was quick work after that, and left me standing on the dance floor, surrounded by the bruised bodies of Triad thugs. I had to crack a smile. I'd _definitely_ needed this, needed the release of getting to just punch something. Normally I'd get my energy out on one of my old sparring partners, but with them back in Vacuo, this made for a pretty good substitute.

The unmistakable click of heels on the polished floor hit my ears, and I looked up to find two pairs of long legs coming towards me.

A feathered head cocked to the side. "Melanie, who is this woman?"

The two almost identical girls stalking toward me looked more like fashion models than bodyguards. The fur stoles and hairpieces I could understand – the feathers on the one in red were actually pretty awesome – but minidresses and heels? Not that I didn't have some myself, but I wouldn't show up to a _fight_ in them. What kind of bodyguard comes to work in frills? Or in a strapless minidress that looked like it'd fall off if she punched too hard? Amateurs.

The twin in white spoke up, her voice a dry whine with traces of valley girl. "I don't know, Militia, but anyone who thinks they can just waltz in here needs be taught a lesson."

Seriously? In heels?

The white one went first, lashing out in a kick to my chest. I took the blow on my arms, the force carrying me back. It gave me a second before the two were on me, forcing me to divide my attention between them. Every time I thought I had the edge on one, the other would appear, using the opening to get in another shot, another kick.

Okay, _maybe_ I'd underestimated their competence ... or the strength of the double-sided tape that _had_ to be holding up their tops. It was kinda weird actually, like someone had taken a real fighter and split her into two mostly-competent halves. I might lean a little on the side of my hands, but I knew well enough to mix up hand and foot work when the situation called for it. White almost exclusively used her legs, and Red had slipped out a set of punching daggers that I kept having to dodge. As soon as I'd start to get a handle on the fight, they'd throw in another surprise – a less formidable kick from Red or a jab from White – forcing me to keep adjusting to _their_ rhythm, putting _me_ on the defensive.

I'd give it to them, they fought well together, at least until I knocked Red's feet out from under her. A few body shots and a blow to her jaw took her down quickly enough.

That just left me and White. Sorry ... _Melanie_. Least I think that's what her sister called her.

It was the same flurry of kicks – the same speed and precision she'd shown earlier – but without the assistance of her twin, she was a lot easier to read. She might have reach on me – even the short legs of her petite frame extended farther than my arm – but I was faster, better trained. Stronger.

I pulled back, forcing her to come to me, playing the distance while waiting for the opening I needed.

And then it came.

I ducked the next roundhouse kick, using the momentum to drive my elbow into her side. She reeled, the force of the blow making her stagger, throwing off her timing. Grabbing her outstretched arm, I twirled around her, pulling her off-balance in a grotesque dance, and gave her a roundhouse kick of my own.

She stayed down.

I stood there, panting, my whole body singing with adrenaline. Oh man, had that felt _good_. The hits I'd taken while the two had been in sync were just starting to ache. I was gonna be a mass of bruises by tomorrow. For being so little, those girls really packed a punch.

I walked back over to the bar, pulling back just in time as the bleeding manager whipped a Louisville slugger at my head. I ducked the bat, coming up to slam my forearm into the side of Junior's nose. He howled, and I took the chance to disarm him, hyperextending his wrist until the bat fell from his limp fingers, only to be tossed across the dance floor. Hauling him up by the tie, I forced him against the wall, the bottles shaking on their counters.

"Look, Junior, I can be reasonable. You tell me what I want to know, and I leave."

He growled something mostly unintelligible – some crack about my sex life that I don't feel like repeating.

"The hard way then." I grinned, taking the chance to catch my breath, before I slammed my hand into his crotch. Junior's eyes bugged as I squeezed, the older man letting out a sound like a teapot.

"Come on, Junior. Just answer the question. The balls are squarely in your court ... for now."

Junior glared over his bloody nose before spitting the words at me, a little of his blood hitting my face. "Belltown. Try Eighth and Pine if you're lookin' to get mugged."

"Was that _really_ so hard?" I let him go, hearing the gasp of air as he flinched away. I grinned and backed off, a spring in my step as I moved towards the door.

I even left cash for my drink. Not paying would have been rude.

* * *

It was almost noon by the time I walked into one of the grimier alleyways in Vale's Belltown district. It had always been the kind of place you walked a little quicker, where drivers locked their car doors and rolled up their windows. So far, I was pretty disappointed. I'd spent the better part of an hour crossing back and forth between back streets, waiting for a sign of the gang that called this their turf. Maybe they were taking a siesta. I knew I could use one.

I made it halfway down the narrow alley before a man in his mid-twenties stepped out to block my path. It was about time, too. If they were going to be criminals, they could _at least_ be punctual ones. There was some weight to him – probably not a junkie, or he'd be a bit stringier. No, he moved with the swagger of someone who thinks a gun makes him invincible. This wasn't someone resorting to desperate measures out of need, this was his chosen career.

"Hey babe," he moved closer, "I was hoping you could give me some directio-"

I didn't let him finish. I could hear his friend coming up from behind – either to hit me in the back of the skull or hold me still while the frontman robbed me. I let his buddy get just close enough before I turned, curled my leg up and in, and lashed out behind me in a rear kick I'd stolen from my old combat instructor. I wasn't the biggest fan of karate – it wasn't really my style – but having been on the receiving end of that kick, I knew how much it could hurt. I caught the frontman in the gut, bowling him over as he clutched at his stomach. I switched my attention to the man coming up from behind. His hand reached down as he got closer, pulling up his shirt to grab for the 9mm trapped on the inside of his waistband. Not wasting a second, my arm flicked out, grabbing the handle and flicking the safety off.

The alley got a lot quieter, both men knowing the telltale sound of a weapon ready to fire. The first mugger started to get up, so I pushed the barrel a little harder against the second guy's pelvis.

"Another move, and your idiot friend can look forward to a promising career as a eunuch."

The guy holding his stomach stopped, stalled either by my threat or from the strain of trying to figure out what a eunuch was. The mugger with the gun down his pants either had a larger vocabulary or was smart enough to give up when a Glock shoved against his privates.

"Now, if I wanted to have a good time, would you boys be the guys to talk to?"

"Sure, yeah. Whatever you want, lady," he nodded wildly.

"And if I felt like partying with some of your Cardinal friends, you guys could make that happen?"

More nodding.

"And if I had a request for a particular one, say ... Russel Thrush?"

Ahh, the sweet sound of silent nodding. I pulled the gun from his pants, whirling him around and pressing the gun against his spine. Hopefully, no one would notice the barrel my hand couldn't completely cover.

I pushed, and we started walking, his partner moving slightly ahead of my captive. We'd only been walking about ten minutes before we came to

This was easier than I'd expected. Yeah, this was gonna work. I could _do_ this.

I should have known better.

That was about when everything went to hell. I'm still not entirely sure where the shot came from. One moment, I was forcing my unwilling guides down the alley, the next I was falling to the side, my shoulder burning. My hostage wasn't as lucky, falling face-first into the dirt, a hole coming out of the back of his shirt. I _do_ remember the remaining mugger bolting when the shot went off. I kept the borrowed gun up with my other hand, forcing myself to get up, to move.

I barely made it three blocks before my head was swimming. The blood loss was getting to me – I was lightheaded and unsteady as I crawled behind a dumpster. No more gunshots came, not pounding feet or spurt of automatic fire. I swore, and tried to look down at the wound.

Okay, that was enough blood that pretty much anyone on the street would try to stop me. Somehow I doubted the "it's just makeup for a movie" excuse was going to fly. I probably looked like shit. Plus, I wasn't sure how far I would get on my own. Gunshot wounds are pretty tricky. I hoped it was a through-and-through, but I wasn't really in a state to be making judgment calls.

That left one option.

I moved the gun into my left hand. The shoulder burned, but my fingers were flexing without too much trouble. I hissed as I reached into my pocket, the motion putting more strain on my already aching wound. I pulled out my phone, accepted my lack of options, and dialed.

The phone only rang twice before she picked up.

"Hey ... Weiss?"

"Hi Yang. Good timing. Just finished of my last meeting on the schedule. Now, I thought we could swing by Rosso's, maybe pick up something with oliv ..." She trailed off. Crap, she could probably hear my breathing through the phone. I tried to put a little more strength into my voice, make it sound a bit less like a dying wheeze.

"Yang, are you alright?" Apparently, I'd failed.

"Sorry, Princess. Corner of Ninth and Pine. Second alley down ... dumpster. No hospitals."

I could just barely hear her heels clicking furiously through the phone, a muffling shout to her driver before a door slam and an engine's rumble.

"What the hell did you do?"

"Got mugged. You should see the other guys."

"Just don't hang up, okay? Stay right there and stay on the phone. Don't you dare pass out on me, you idiotic, suicidal, complete and utter moron!"

I smiled as she ranted, the familiar sound of a Weiss tantrum oddly calming despite the blood seeping through my jacket.

I'm still not sure how she got there so fast. Actually, I may have passed out, because the next thing I remember is Weiss throwing her jacket over my bloodstains and helping her driver slide me into the car. I ended up in the back seat, getting blood all over Weiss' suit as she checked my wound, balling something up and pressing it against my aching shoulder.

"Thanks," I think I muttered, before everything went black.


	4. Homecoming, Part III

**Homecoming, Part III**

_March 25, 2014_

I think I was in and out of consciousness for a while. I vaguely remember Weiss forcing me to drink something, a couple flashes of people moving me. Weiss must have drugged me at some point, or at least I _hope _she had. If I'd lost enough blood to pass out repeatedly, I was in worse shape than I'd thought.

When I woke up – _really _woke up – I was back at her apartment (the framed photo of teenage us with an eight year-old Ruby kinda gave it away). I was lying in a four-poster bed I didn't recognize, the curtains pulled back and tied to the bedposts. Must be her room. I had to smile at that. Weiss had always wanted a four-poster, something that had stuck with her since she was a kid. I guess it was one of those things you figured you might as well do once you're an adult. Probably healthier than having ice cream for breakfast, partying far too late, or going days without sleep just to see if you could. Not that I'd done _any _of those things during my one year at college. Definitely not.

Plus, an elegant four-poster worked a lot better for an adult than my childhood dream of a racecar bed.

Someone, Weiss probably, had shoved a mountain of pillows behind my back, trying to keep me elevated. My shirt was gone, leaving me lying there in my sports bra. Made sense, given how stained the shirt had been. A mostly-empty blood bag hung from one of the bedposts, the tube running down the side of the bed. I could still see the injection site, a bandage covering where the IV tube had sat. It probably wouldn't leave a scar, the needle hadn't been in me long enough. I still had one from an IV drip after the shrapnel incident, about the size of a pen nub just beneath the base of my thumb.

Weiss was easy enough to find, seated at my side, plugging away on her laptop.

"What's up, doc?" It came out raspier than I'd meant it to, the wound aching as I breathed too quickly.

She looked over, lips pursing as she rolled her eyes. "For the last time, I don't have a doctorate." She set the laptop aside, then moved over to me, pulling down the blanket to check my shoulder. The dressing looked new enough, although I bet she'd change it in a few hours.

"You fix a bullet wound, you qualify in my book." I wasn't particularly picky about the whole 'Doc' thing. I'd known more than a few medics who'd had the nickname. They'd deserved the title too, at least by our standards. Just didn't need a degree to prove it. Plus, when they were the only thing between you and bleeding out on a rock, 'doc' was a lot more hopeful. At least I hadn't been navy – I'm sure their Corpsmen were excellent, but the corpse puns my messed-up head spewed definitely would not have helped my recovery.

"Anyway, didn't you get like, three degrees in biology, or something all sciencey?"

"Biochemistry, and neither they, nor an MBA program, really prepares you for stitching up your half-naked friends." Weiss pulled back, perching on the chair so she could reach out to feel my forehead. "You're just lucky I developed a morbid fascination with gunshot wounds after you enlisted."

"... sorry about that."

She nodded, fingers moving down to check my vitals. I kept my mouth shut while she worked, which – despite what people say – wasn't really _that_ hard. Eventually, she let me go, apparently satisfied that I wasn't about to pass out on her. I waited for the shitstorm, the hail of fury that I'd been expecting since the moment I'd called her. Which, to be fair, I ... kinda deserved.

Instead, she sat back in the chair, pulling the laptop over before her fingers resumed their rhythmic pounding on the keyboard.

Okay, now this was getting weird. I knew Weiss. Like _knew_ her. She was supposed to be badgering me to tell her what stupid mess I'd gotten myself into, or what idiotic thing I'd done to get myself shot. Nope, she was practically ignoring me – which was _weird_. Really weird. Weiss was just not the cold-shoulder kind of girl. She was the 'scream at you while explaining why you were a complete moron' kind. Or at least, she had been.

"Where'd you get the blood?" I asked, trying to shift and immediately regretting it. Damn, that hurt. Moving slowly, I tested the shoulder, seeing how far I could move my arm without wincing. It wasn't as far as I'd like, but as bullet wounds went, I'd gotten off fairly easy.

"It's mine," she said, still typing away.

"You just had it lying around?"

"I store some, just in case."

"In case of what? You get bitten by a vampire? Need a stash of the old O negative to keep the munchies at bay?" Didn't get a laugh for that one. Guess she just wasn't having it today.

"Apparently, I have if for when my idiot friend gets shot and forbids me from taking her to a hospital." She still wasn't looking at me, staring crossly into her screen, fingers click-clacking furiously over the keys. "You're lucky I'm a universal donor, but I didn't have time to do a real cross-match between our blood samples. There's a chance your body might reject my cells, but since you didn't exactly give me much choice, I'm having my lab check the samples now – see if I have to rush you to a hospital after all."

"Sorry for the hassle."

"It's not the hassle, Yang. Do you have any idea how irresponsible this is? What if your body rejected my blood, or the bullet did more damage than I could fix? Or if the stored blood had become contaminated? You could catch sepsis, or-"

"Okay, Weiss, I get it. 'Don't do it again.'"

My nurse humphed, her point apparently made. She went back to ignoring me, still waiting for the results, I guess.

I decided I'd had about enough of silent Weiss. I raised my good arm, and reached out, fingers opening and twisting in increasingly complex gestures.

Eventually, Weiss noticed my insanity, looking over at the bed, irritation obvious on her face. "What are you doing?"

I let my arm flop back on the bed, pouting up into narrowed azure eyes.

"I have Schnee blood coursing through my veins, and I _still_ don't have ice powers."

Her eyes narrowed further as the clicked resumed. "You can be such a _child_ sometimes."

"You know, normally, I have this long talk with potential partners before I let them put bodily fluids in me." If she was gonna be grumpy, I was gonna up the ante. "But for _you_, I think I'll make an exception."

It took Weiss a second to piece apart the innuendo, before immediately going bright red. I couldn't help but grin; it was nice to see I could still press her buttons after all these years.

"Don't be a pest," she snapped, apparently trying to cover the embarrassed blush creeping up her neck. It _really_ wasn't working.

"I don't have hepatitis or something now, right?"

"Watch it, Yang."

"Chronic Tsundere Disease? Ice Queen Syndrome? Sickle-cell Schnee-nemia?"

"... you are a terrible human being."

"I practice."

"You know, I can always put the bullet back in."

"Shutting up now." I raised my good arm in surrender, even bothering to look sheepish until her glower softened. Finally, Weiss sighed, closing the clamshell lid. She looked more resigned than angry. Not a good sign – angry I could deal with. Resigned ... that meant she'd decided to _do_ something.

"Any time you want to tell me why I had to pull a nine-millimeter slug out of your shoulder, I'm all ears."

Okay. Shouldn't be too hard. Just have to tell her enough of the truth for it to sound real. "I got mugged. One of them got off a lucky sho-"

"No." Her voice pitched up like a schoolteacher catching you in a lie, making sure you knew she knew, and that she was having none of it. "Normal people go to the hospital."

"I don't have insurance?"

"Is that a question, or an answer?" Another sigh. "Don't try, Yang. You've never been good at lying to me."

Shit. Well, it was worth a shot.

"I _may_ have tried to get mugged, so that they could lead me back to the guy ... who shot my dad."

The silence came back, just long enough for her face to grow steadily redder, the earlier embarrassment replaced with sheer, impotent rage.

"You are _such_ an idiot!" Weiss half-tossed her laptop aside, the plastic case clattering on the dresser. "You go off half-cocked, nearly get yourself killed-"

"Weiss, I was army. Some punk with a handgun is not that much of a threat."

"Oh, so you went in with body armor, backup, sufficient intel, or at least significantly superior firepower? Because unless I'm mistaken, _that's _how the army's supposed to do things!"

Weiss was standing by the side of the bed, looking like she didn't particularly know or care how she'd gotten there. For someone that short, she was doing a fairly passable job of looming over me, sparks firing from her eyes while she yelled.

"You know, I _knew_ you wouldn't let this go, but for some reason, I was _stupid _enough to think you'd leave it at harassing Pyrrha at all hours for more information. Maybe hire a private investigator. No, you decide to go on a one-woman crusade!"

"What do you want me to do, Weiss? Sit back and wait for a police force _you_ said was incompetent?"

"I _want_ you to live long enough that Ruby can get over her abandonment issues. I _want _my friend alive, home, and safe, where I don't have to worry about losing her anymore!"

I didn't say anything for a while, just looked up into those angry blue eyes.

She wasn't wrong. I'd kinda left a mess behind me, and Weiss had been enough of a saint to put up with it. And then I'd shown up, and immediately gotten injured.

"I know this isn't fair. To either of you. But I _need_ to know, Weiss. I need to know why."

"We don't always get a _why_, Yang. Sometimes, bad things just happen."

"This wasn't Soap Opera disease. It wasn't a heart attack, or a car accident, or some cancer designed to teach some half-assed moral about valuing life. It was a guy. With a gun. I need answers, Weiss. I can't move on without knowing. I can't _live_ while whoever did this is still out there." I croaked through the last bit before my chest started convulsing, seizing with raspy coughs that made my wound ache. This much talking had been a bad idea, but I needed her to understand. To _get_ why I had to do this. Why I didn't have a choice.

Someone was lifting my head, pouring something down my throat. When I could breathe normally, I found Weiss standing over me, holding me upright, a now-empty cup in her hand.

"Alright," she whispered, jaw clenched as she put the glass on the nightstand. Gathering her stuff, Weiss moved to the door, already halfway through it before she turned back to me.

"Water's on the table, if you need it."

"Where are you going?"

"I have work." She gave me a look I didn't recognize, clutching her bag a little tighter. "Get some rest. I'll be back soon."

* * *

I spent maybe half a day in bed before the jitters got to me. I've never been a lounging around kind of girl. A few hours of rest, another of staring at the wall, waiting for something to happen, and then I was pushing myself out of bed on my good arm ... and ordered a pizza.

What?

Blood loss means you need to consume more iron, namely to let yourself make all those new red blood cells. Add in the required protein and electrolytes, and there really isn't any choice other than to dive teeth-first into a stuffed-crust Supreme straight from the ovens at Rosso's, with all the meat I could order. With jalapenos, of course. I'm not a savage.

Plus, I _really_ didn't feel like raiding Weiss' fridge.

I think the worst part was the silence. After years of messages and late-night calls, to have her here and not talking ... it sucked. _I_ sucked, for pissing her off this much. Not like there were many options when it came to defending myself this time. I'd known she wouldn't take this well – which was why I hadn't told her in the first place.

I gave her a day. A day of being good and quiet, and letting the flesh under the bandage start to knit itself back together. I kept knocking back the maximum allowable dosage of Advil; I'd have preferred _real_ painkillers, but when your hospital room consists of your friend's bedroom ... Well, you take what you can get.

After a combination of painkillers, pizza, and blood loss, it was a miracle I managed to make it to the couch before I collapsed, slipping into the deepest sleep I could remember having in a long time. I woke just after midnight with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and pillow stuffed under my neck, the door to Weiss' room shut tight.

It was good to know. That she still cared. That she was mad _because_ she cared. It just didn't change what I had to do.

Forty minutes later, dressed in a t-shirt with a neck high enough to hide my bandages and a brown bomber jacket slung about my shoulders, I found myself walking towards a familiar red-and-white sign.

The club was almost unrecognizable by night, the lights in the flashy logo cranked up past eleven. Bright colors clashed with brighter clothes as people lined around the block to party and drink the night away. Whatever Junior might running on the side, I kinda had to respect his work ethic; even if it was just a cover, his business was booming.

My march back into a Triad den got cut short by a particularly beefy arm, attached to a particularly beefy man with more neck than head.

"You on the list?" he growled, sounding more like a rockfall than a human being.

"Buddy, I am _really_ not in the mood."

"Uh huh. Miss, I'mma need you to step ba-"

"Let her in," a voice called from within the club, long syllables pitching in a very distinctive whine.

I knew that whine.

The bouncer took one look at the twins standing behind him, and stepped aside. The sisters waited for me, heads cocked to the side as I stepped into the club. It was a far cry from the quiet, well-scrubbed hall I'd seen during the day. The music resonated in my bones, the bass pulsing, beating, pumping whatever alcoholic lifeblood kept this place moving. The room was a mix of shadows and flashing lights, sweeping neon beams that cut through the smoke-filled air. The crowd moved along to the DJ's beat, more talented dancers dominating the center of the floor while the less-skilled bounced and pumped along the outskirts. Inhibitions were low, blood alcohol was high, and I had no doubt half the crowd was blitzed out on some stimulant or other.

A few steps into the room, and the twins were around me, splitting to pass on either side. Their outfits were the same as the last time we fought – or similar enough that I couldn't spot the difference – with enough red and white for them to look like off-season Christmas elves. Well ... grumpy, pouty, potentially violent Christmas elves. Which, considering the staff of your average mall, might not actually be that abnormal.

Honestly, the look worked for them. I'd have thought with skin that pale, the red would have been too strong, the white too bleached, but they made it work. Plus, the whole 'color-coded for your convenience' thing meant there was no chance in hell of mistaking one sister for the other.

The room was already warm and steamy, the air conditioner working overtime to fight the body heat of the dancing patrons, but I could feel the temperature of the room climb a few degrees as the twins closed in.

Or maybe it was just me. I've always been a sucker for a girl in fur.

Some people just have this draw to them. Justify it as pheromones, or a primitive part of your brain saying that _this _is someone you could make _awesome_ babies with, but there are just some people who carry ... something. Heat, aura, fire, a swirling whirlpool of lust and madness that sucks you into an emotional abyss as black as the pits of hell ... the name changes depending on who you ask. It rests in their bones and rides on their backs, and just being near them turns you on.

Anyway, whatever you feel like calling it, these two girls _had _it. In spades.

Ignoring the image of being stalked by two particularly fashionable lions, I tried to loosen up my bad shoulder – I needed to be ready for whatever the two were about to throw at me. With my arm the way it was, I doubted it would go as well as last time.

At least I wasn't the only one looking the worse for wear; the last remaining traces of a bruise still ringed Red's eye, and I could still see the half-healed cut in the white twin's split lip.

The sisters stared up at me through lashes far too long to be natural. With about as much warning as a punch to the face, the girl in the red dress held out her hand.

"Militia."

"Melanie."

"Here for another round?"

Okay. Wow. They looked, um ... _eager_.

I grinned awkwardly, gingerly shaking the offered hand. This wasn't how I normally found sparring partners, but I could definitely do worse. I'm sure they could, eventually, give me a real run for my money. Even if the half-lidded eyes and pouting lips screamed 'trouble.'

The stockinged legs definitely had nothing to do with it. Nope. Nothing at all.

Shaking my head sadly, I pulled the neck of my shirt down just enough to show the edge of the bandages.

"Not tonight. I wouldn't give you two much of a contest."

Now, I was more than ready to fend off any attacks from a couple of mooks pissed at having their asses handed to them. My good arm was just relaxed enough to block whichever one threw the first blow – and after seeing them both fight, I was definitely taking out the white twin first.

What I wasn't ready for, was Melanie grabbing my uninjured hand and dragging me towards a side room, Militia flicking the curtains closed as we entered. Ignoring my protests, the white-dressed twin shoved me down onto one of the couches, her red counterpart yanking the neckline of my shirt to the side.

"The hell are you doing?" I stammered, grabbing the offending hand.

The two looked up at me in unison, giving me that derisive stare most people reserve for raving lunatics.

"Making sure you're okay."

Well, then. Apparently I wasn't getting a choice in the matter.

I tried not to think about what might have left the stains on the oh-so-tacky red satin while the two girls checked my wound. They were surprisingly efficient – almost clinical as they checked me over. It made sense, I guess; work for the Triads, eventually you were going to end up needing a little first aid here or there.

It was ... actually pretty nice. The twin's hands were warm on my skin as they worked, careful enough not to put any pressure on the wound itself.

Once they decided I wasn't about to collapse on them, Militia glared up at me.

"Who did this?"

I had a nasty feeling that question did not come from a place of concern. "... why?"

"You're fun."

"You're good in a fight."

"And they just stole a rematch from us." The twins drawled back and forth, sharing the conversation in a way that could cause whiplash, if their voices ever changed from that slow, mocking drawl.

I'll be honest, getting dragged into the VIP lounge and manhandled by a pair of cute Chinese twins was _not_ how I'd expected this to go down. Continued terror at the she-beast who had busted her way in last time – _that_ I was ready for. Them wanting to try again, test their luck at beating me this time, sure, but not this. I wasn't about to complain, but it was taking longer than I'd like for me to string two words together.

In my defense, they were _really_ cute.

"'kaaay then. If, say, a friend of mine wanted to drop in on a few of her buddies in the Cardinals, especially if they were hiding, where would she look?"

The twins glanced back at each other, and I got a distinct impression of being completely out of the loop. Twin telepathy probably. It's too cool not to be a real thing.

"After you kill him, we want a rematch."

Well. Never had anyone endorse a murder for me before.

"When you're healed." Militia laid her hand over the entry wound. I'd expected pain, but she was careful to keep the pressure off, and having her hand there ... it was oddly comforting. I could feel her warmth on what skin wasn't covered in gauze and tape, and _boy,_ was she warm.

"Never said anyone was gonna _kill_ him ... but I could be convinced to go another round with you two. If, someone told me where to look."

The two girls shared another glance, jade-green eyes blinking before they turned back to me. Without a word, Melanie slipped back through the curtain, leaving Militia and me on the stained satin couch.

Something squeezed my arm, and I looked back to find Militia running her hand down my bicep, her eyes following each muscled curve.

"You work out." It was a statement, not a question, delivered in that purring voice that made me ask myself if this really was a good idea. I wasn't sure if she was staring at me like a particularly juicy steak, or a brand new toy. Wasn't even sure which I'd prefer.

The curtains rustled, and Melanie came back into the room, followed by a crew-cut bartender in a black vest and horribly garish red tie.

Oh well. Too late to back out now.

"Sup Junior."

The triad lieutenant's jaw dropped. His eyes twitched, mouth working soundlessly while he looked for something to say to the gorgeous blonde who'd beaten him and his boys only a few days ago. It probably didn't help that I was lounging in his VIP room, with one of his better enforcers playing with my hair as she practically drooled over my arm, the other sister claiming my free side while he stammered.

A part of me felt bad for the guy. A small part, at least.

"What is wrong with you two?" he growled, staring daggers at Melanie.

"Junior!" I chastised, mock-angry. "Is that any way to treat a friend?"

"We're not friends, Blondie."

I grinned. Junior was big, heavy-set with a defending lineman's mass. Probably could have gone pro, if he hadn't settled into a life of crime. Would have made for some fun TV too; if the triads ever got involved in the NFL, I might actually watch a game. Hell, an all-mafia league would be awesome. _Way_ more fun than the average concussion.

Now, Junior had bulk, and he could probably use it, but that was about as far as he went. He was no prize fighter, his nose far too straight for anyone who got punched for a living. My shoulder might be slowing me down, but in a fair fight – or even better, an unfair one – I could probably take him one-handed.

Still, there was no guarantee that Melanie and Militia wouldn't side with their boss over me. Probably best to keep this little meeting fairly low-key.

"Junior, either I'm a friend, and we help each other – like friends – or I'm the woman who breaks your stuff, and punches your face in until you tell me what I wanna know."

I let him stand and think about his choices. He knew I was capable of the beating; I'd done it before.

"Now, if I'm not mistaken, you and your ... Chinese 'contacts'," I finger-quoted for effect. I mean, we both knew who I was talking about. "You'd like it if the Cardinals stopped being a problem. I have a friend who's in a problem-solving mood."

"A friend."

"I'm just the middleman."

"Most middlemen don't end up shot."

"Most middlemen can't wipe the floor with a room full of Triad goons." I shot back, the twins shifting as they turned to glare at me. "And two very challenging and competent women."

Ruffled feathers smoothed, they settled back down against the sofa, Militia still absently twining one blonde lock around her finger.

Junior rubbed at his jaw before speaking again. "The Cardinals got a lot noisier lately. Better guns, better men. They find out we were the ones who leaked their location ..." he shook his head, more at the argument he was having with himself than at me. "I can't start a war, not without a lot more support from my bosses."

"No one will connect my friend to you, Junior. She just wants a Cardinal. She thinks he's at their base, hideout, whatever you wanna call it. You give me the location, and she solves at least some of your little problem." He paused for a second, and I knew I had him. "You can even justify it as you being , oh what'do you all it, entrepreneurial. Say you found a way to pit two local players against each other, without getting yourself involved. Maybe you'll even get a promotion, or whatever benefits your bosses let trickle down."

More silence as the gears started to move, balancing the risk of telling me with the obvious risk of _not_ telling me. I tried to look as threatening as possible, which was proving to be pretty difficult on what I was almost sure was someone's sex couch. He was just about to speak when Melanie cleared her throat.

The pale young woman crossed her legs, raising one high-heeled foot as her eyebrows cocked, glaring up at Junior from behind half-lidded eyes.

Whatever Junior had been about to say, it died in his throat. Some of the strength went out of his spine, and the big guy slumped a little, starting another round of throat-clearing.

"When they took Belltown, the cops got pretty focused on finding their main hidey-hole. Apparently, whoever's in charge now has something of a brain, 'cause he moved their main place down to the shipyards. Assuming your guy's looking for protection, that'd be a place to start."

I pushed myself to my feet, part of me wanting to stay on that couch, trapped between the twins, the other part telling me to high-tail it out of here before everything went to hell. "You know, Junior, you're a real stand-up mobster."

The glare he shot me could have scorched steel. Still, he nodded, threw a look back at Melanie, and walked out, calling a parting shot over his shoulder.

"Take her out the back. I don't want anyone seein' her here."

Melanie nodded, leading me by my uninjured hand and not letting go until we were standing behind the club's dumpsters.

"Now," she drawled, "how about that rematch?"

I had a decision to make. This was either gonna go really well, or in a few weeks I'd be waking up hog-tied in someone's trunk. Or worse, _not_ waking up in someone's trunk.

Still, a deal was a deal.

"When the shoulder heals, I know where to find you," I said, eyes flicking between identical pairs of blue-green eyes.

"That ... might not the best idea."

"Some of the boys aren't as forgiving as we are."

"Not that they're a threat, but we'd rather fight you fresh," Militia picked up after her sister paused.

"Here," Melanie turned my hand over, pressing something small into my palm. "When you're ready, give us a call."

The two slipped back into the club, one last unreadable look shot over their shoulders, bringing visions too enjoyable for them to be legal to my already-overtaxed mind.

I looked down, finding one of the club's matchboxes in my hand, '_Just_' scrawled in red on one side, their number neatly printed on the other.

Yup. One more thing to go on the list of stuff I could _never _tell Weiss. Honestly, it was starting to look like a pretty long list.


End file.
